Thursday, November 10, 2005

The gazals I memorized in school are ancient poems, somewhere between a fairy tale and a story of eternal longing. In the poems I read from Nizami, I could never imagine a young maiden trotting about on ordinary, mortal legs. Beautiful young maidens float inches above the ground. Either that, or they dance. Their arms and hands tell a story. Their eyes are mirrors. Their dance is pure metamorphosis - from flesh and blood into light, memory, and song.